


Mycroft is always right

by NovaNara



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post season 3. Unwilling time travel and much willing romance. I don't know how to sum this up, if not 'bit weird'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mycroft is always right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ennui Enigma](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Ennui+Enigma).



> Disclaimer: nothing mine. Sherlock and John are shared by Conan Doyle and BBC.   
> A.N. I owed my dearest Ennui Enigma an oneshot for being my 100th reviewer on the December Calendar past year. She gave me as a prompt the song Concrete Angel by Christina Novelli. Somehow, the title translated into 'weeping angel' inside my head. I'm sorry I couldn't do better, dear. I hope you like it even if it's a bit flawed.

This paper was found folded in a hideaway in the wall of John Watson's bedroom, when the place was swept looking for clues on the sudden disappearance of both tenants at 221B, Baker Street.

 

 

The universe is mad. And I'm crazier than it (them, probably, actually; there should be more than one.) I've consistently denied being interested in Sherlock _like that._ You know, lovers, boyfriends, soulmates...it's since we became flatmates that almost everyone considers us some sort of variation thereof. Despite all my protests. Hell, despite the fact that I've married. Though, to be completely honest, if I would have chosen Mary had he not bloody left me at the time I can't say. Now there's the risk of prison if we were discovered in a relationship, and I'm madly in love with him (I realized it about a month ago, actually) and decided to act on it. Yep. I'm mad.

If anyone of you is wondering, we're not in some still homophobic nation. We're in London. We have just...jumped back in time. Now you're nodding to yourself sagely, saying, "Right. Nutcase." But I'm only being truthful. Let me be clear, ok?

Sherlock Holmes was born in 1976. We met in 2010. We became flatmates, best friends, partners in crime (fighting). He told me that he was married to his work. And he had no affairs, ignoring every interested party until Irene (honestly, only God knows what was between them) and, later, Janine (but that was for a case – awful as it sounds to the average human – so it shouldn't count). I dated a lot of girls and insisted to everyone that I.Wasn't. Gay. Which I'm not, given the evidence – I'm at least bi, thank you very much.Sherlock played dead. Yes, he had reasons, _but still._ I got married to an ex-MI6 or something who thought it best not to inform me of her past. Hell, of her _name._ Of bloody course, apparently. I got her pregnant. She. Shot. Sherlock (who bloody _flatlined_ once.) Sherlock shot someone for us. An evil mastermind (they do exist outside Bond films) pulled a Lazarus act, too. And then, SCI-FI suddenly turned real. 

If you live late enough, you might have watched Dr. Who. I used to. Loved that. That's why I understood what happened. While we were on another of another of Moriarty's games, in two seconds flat – I swear – that I didn't look at him I found out that Sherlock had disappeared...and a statue had moved. Yes, it made no sense. But nothing else did either. There was physically no time for it. Literally. A goddamned Weeping Angel. I could keep my eyes on it (had Moriarty accounted for it? Somehow I doubted that), hope there weren't others of his ilk around and go home to my baby girl. And not see Sherlock anymore. For sure, this time. I did the only sensible thing. I closed my eyes, and  _hoped._

The universe, while mad, can be surprisingly kind. 221B is still there. Mrs. Hudson's gran-something, too, and she was not adverse to letting us rent our rooms. As a doctor, I can still easily find employment, though I have to lie about the year of my degree. Hell, I don't even have to lie about having fought in Afghanistan. (What's this feud we have with Afghanistan?) But the very best thing is that Lestrade's ancestor is around, too, in the same career as our friend (who's apparently named after him) and after only a case he was as open to make use of Sherlock's help as his descendant. So we've settled intoa very comfortable something that's actually not that different from our past life (well, minus internet and the technology, obviously.)

I even keep writing about him, though this era's pens are annoying. I found someone willing to publish my accounts, too, and I keep hoping against hope that my stories could come into our friends' hands to let them know what happened, and that we're fine. Have we changed the timeline, I wonder sometimes. Did Mummy Holmes pick the name from my mysteries, perhaps?

I have to twist a few details here and there, of course. Moriarty becomes a mathematician because IT is at least a good fifty years into the future. Mary starts as a client because she was at one point, and I can't really disclose the details of how she became one. If only I had been sensible enough to see through her! And if you read my novel closely, you'll start pondering on how Small managed to throw away the treasure unnoticed and wonder if everything you've been told is one giant lie. The case of Agra's fake treasure, indeed. I give CAM documents on people, because that would have made thingd so much easier...

Sherlock is miffed that I don't change divulging his ignorance of the solar system, but that will let everyone know it's really us and not homonyms. I doubt two such people can be born. And he scoffs at my fanciful rendition of the Empty House.

"I had to trick the forgiveness out of you," he reminds me.

"Well, I  _could have_ fainted," I bit back, "and do you really want people to know that I attacked you three separate times?"

I have not many complaints about our current life, but one is great. My friend has always shielded himself with his socopath label and acted like he didn't care. Now it's upped to the nth power. Sometimes it looks like he doesn't care about anything at all, not even me. Like he's really the machine I accused him once to be. I  _know_ it's nothing more than overacting, but it's bloody annoying. Because sometimes I wonder...what if it isn't? What have I followed?

Today I'm confronting him. To hell with it. We're blessedly alone, and with no case on sight, this might even keep him from being bored.

"I know what you're doing so stop it," I start.

"I'm not doing anything right now, doctor," he drawls.

_Doctor? See what I mean?_ "Pretending that  _you_ 're the Ice Man. You're doing it since we ended up here, and frankly, your Mycroft impression is awful," I reply. 

"I don't know what you mean."

"This. Stop pretending. We're alone. Let's talk about the bloody elephant for once," I prompt.

"That case is solved," he reminds me. Of course it is. But that's not what I meant, and he knows. He's just being obtuse on purpose, and it doesn't become him.

"Our elephant, Sherlock. What are we?" I query, challenge in my tone.

"Flatmates. Colleagues. Friends," he replies hurriedly, clearly hoping to appease me.

"And?" I insist.  _Two fools madly in love with each other. Come on._

"Stop, John," he half-pleads. I'd obey him any other time, but today I'm too stubborn to be deterred.

"Look, I get it. You're scared. If people observe, it would be a big problem," I say. That earns me a glare and a snort. People observing isn't likely, is it?

"And I've been an idiot in the past. Probably you believe what I kept repeating. I can't entirely fault you for that. But we're alone in a century that isn't even our own, the rest of reality – well, our reality – just popped out of existence. I'm asking you to trust me and say what you've been meaning to really say before Moriarty came back. No jokes," I continue.

"I can't," Sherlock croaks. Which is absurd. I'd say it myself, but then Sherlock would have the option to retreat behind his general distaste of emotions and pretend that he's not in love with me. It was painfully obvious that he was the last days before we were stranded here. Hell, it broke my heart, but circumstances were too messy to possibly think to ignore them.Why is he so cold now?

"Please, Sherlock. You know, I know, but we're pretending nothing is going on. This is ridiculous. Say it just the once," I unashamedly beg.

"Why?" And his face his so raw for a moment that I wonder if he suspects that I want him to confess only in order to pick at him. It makes me vaguely ill.

"So I can answer," I say quietly.

He stiffens, and then throws at me, "I love you," almost in anger. Oh well. We'll work on that.

"I love you too," I declare softly. Which he should already know, methinks, but with Sherlock it's best not to ever assume. Look at what happened when I told him we were best friends, and wasn't that obvious?

"No," he replies.

 _Wait, what?Excuse me, sir!_ But I have no occasion to object (you try to interject while he's talking) before he presses on,"You're just lost and confused and holding onto the last bit of familiarity you have and misinterpreting things. I bet you'll remarry soon enough." That's not the worst; the worst is how utterly...defeated his voice rings.

"Do you even know how we ended up here?" I ask with apparent inconsequentiality.

"No idea," he admits, glancing at me for once with the 'what are you talking about?' look most people usually offer him.

"Ok, it's weird, but since we're here I think that you'll be more inclined to believe me. It was a Weeping Angel, Sherlock. You haven't deleted them...or have you?" I reveal. Actually, in all probability he has deleted them, now that I think about it. Oh well. I can always explain.

"Strangely not yet," he replies. He doesn't object against my statement. It makes as much sense as being here in the first place, I suppose.

"I've seen it," I tell him, "and. I. Closed. My. Eyes. I'm not confused, Sherlock. _I chose you_." I smile at him.

Comprehension sparks in his eyes, warm and giddy. We're kissing a second later, and it's nothing short of glorious.

So, dear reader, yes, the universe is mad, I'm mad, and if you've ever heard even a passing mention of Sherlock Holmes you'll know he was pretty mad too. But let me tell you- sharing madness with the right person can be the exact definition of bliss.

Now, if it's not 2014 yet, could you please put this back? Because I'd really like to let Mycroft know that he can stop fretting. I'm taking care of Sherlock. And well, we took definitely more than a week, and he won't be able to tell us, not to mention that we can't exactly get married now, but... congratulations are in order.

John Hamish Watson, MD

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
